


Switching Off

by orphan_account



Series: Glass Cases [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Plug, BDSM, Bondage, Breathplay, Caning, Dom John Watson, Dom Sherlock, Dubious Consent, F/M, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Past Drug Use, Sexual Slavery, Stockholm Syndrome, Sub Irene, Sub John, Sub Sherlock Holmes, Suicidal Thoughts, Vaginal Sex, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-04 21:35:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1793932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Sherlock Holmes is an engineer. A year ago, he kidnapped Irene Adler. A month ago, he kidnapped John Watson. Irene and John are now Sherlock's sex slaves.</p><p>Sgt. Donovan follows up on her last lead in the case of missing army veteran John Watson.</p><p>Sherlock orders his toys to play with each other. And then he incites John to dominate him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Last Light

Sgt. Donovan sits in DI Lestrade's office and discusses the case of missing army veteran John Watson. "I've found an oddity, sir. At half six in the morning on May the third, a homeless man emerged from the alley across the street from Benchmark pub. No CCTV camera captures activity in the alley, but at least one camera should have captured the man's entrance into the alley. There is no such footage, and I've checked from 11 a.m. on April the thirtieth."

Lestrade scratches his forehead. "What are you saying, Sally? What does this have to do with the case? Do you have a theory about this homeless man? Is he a suspect?"

Donovan senses the DI's exasperation. "S-Sir, he appeared from nowhere--"

"John Watson has been missing for 33 days, Sally, and you've been at this for two weeks. If we don't have reason to believe there is an imminent threat to his life, we have to pass this along to Missing Persons."

"His therapist said he is not actively suicidal, but if he finds himself in a life-threatening situation, he might not try to defend himself." She has explained this to Lestrade before. "We need to help him," she urges.

"We will, but not directly," Lestrade says. He makes decisions like this every day. They are always difficult.

"Let me just follow up on my last lead," Donovan bargains.

"Which is?"

"On the night Watson went missing, one patron left the pub with a man who was pretty out of it, and who was dressed as a woman. The staff say the patron," she glances at her notes, "Sherlock Holmes, is a regular, and they did see him arrive at the pub with a man dressed as a woman, but sir, the cross-dresser physically resembles Watson. What if... What if Holmes came in with a different man than he left with?"

"And where would his original companion have gone?"

Donovan's eyes widen. "Sir, the homeless man! It fits! He also has the same build as Watson! Same height, skin colour, hair colour."

"Seems improbable," Lestrade says, pondering.

"But it could be true!" Donovan narrates as she puts the puzzle pieces together, "The cross-dressing companion could have changed out of his clothes inside the pub, then left the pub while the cameras were jammed, then pretended to be a homeless man across the street. The man who left the pub with Holmes could have been Watson, drugged and made to wear the cross-dresser's clothes, including the long wig."

Lestrade says, "All right, look into it, but if this lead doesn't pan out, give the case to Missing Persons."

"Yes, sir."

***

Sherlock has been home from work for 10 minutes, when he hears the knock at his door. He opens it and sees Mrs. Hudson with a police officer.

"Sherlock Holmes?" the officer asks.

"Yes?"

"Sgt. Sally Donovan. May I come in?"

Sherlock nods to Mrs. Hudson, who leaves. He makes way for the officer to come into the sitting room. "Take a seat, sergeant. Kettle's just about to boil. Would you like some tea?"

"Yes, please." She sits near one end of the sofa and lays her file folder on her lap.

Sherlock returns from the kitchen with two cups of tea, no milk and no sugar. He hands one cup to Donovan and then sits on the sofa, as far from the sergeant as possible. "How can I help you?" He takes a sip of his tea.

Donovan places her cup on the low table in front of the sofa, and then pulls a photograph of John Watson out of her folder. "Do you know this man?"

Sherlock looks at the photo, then says, "No."

"He has been missing since May the second, last seen at Benchmark pub. You were there that night."

"I often go there."

"Alone?"

"Sometimes."

"Were you alone on May the second?"

Sherlock looks up as he pretends to draw from his memories. "That was a Friday," he says slowly. He furrows his brow. "I think I was with Chelsea that night."

"Is Chelsea your girlfriend?"

"Relationships are not really my area, Sgt. Donovan."

"So, it was casual..." Donovan waits for a response but doesn't get any. Sherlock simply stares at her. She continues, "Could you give me Chelsea's full name and contact information?"

"Sure. The government knows her as Charles Peterson." Sherlock pulls his phone out of his trouser pocket, and reads out Charles's phone number and address.

Donovan writes the details on a sheet in her folder. "Did you and Charles arrive at the pub together?"

"Yes."

"What time?"

"I don't know. Can't CCTV footage tell you that?" Sherlock heaves a put-upon sigh.

Donovan decides to play it straight. "You won't believe how many people lie when asked."

"Well, I'm not one of those idiots, and I don't remember what time we got there. We were already inebriated before we headed over."

"Where did you come from?"

"Here."

"You were drinking here?"

"Yes."

"Did you leave the pub together?"

"Yes."

"And where did you go?"

"Here."

"Do you remember what time that was?"

"Oh, maybe half 10." He rolls his eyes, as if he has better things to do than answer questions from the police.

Donovan scrutinises Sherlock, from his black curls down to his polished leather shoes, and back up again over his expensive grey suit. "Where do you work, Mr. Holmes?"

"C.D. Arthur Technologies."

"As an engineer?"

"Yes."

Donovan admits to herself that although Sherlock's replies are curt, there isn't enough basis for her to pursue him, unless Charles fails to corroborate his story. "All right, thank you for your time," she says as she stands.

Sherlock bolts the door after the sergeant leaves.

Later that same afternoon, Donovan will speak with Charles. She will expect to find the man who emerged from the alley across Benchmark, and will be surprised to see that Charles is not the same man.

Charles will tell the sergeant that he doesn't remember much from May the second because he was drunk. But yes, he visited Sherlock at 221B Baker Street. And yes, he vaguely recalls going with Sherlock to the pub. And yes, he must have left the pub with Sherlock, because he woke up at 221B Baker Street the next morning. (These are all lies, though he really was at Sherlock's home on the morning of May the third.)

That evening, the sergeant will watch CCTV footage from Baker Street in a last-ditch effort to disprove Sherlock's and Charles's accounts, and hang on to her only remaining lead. Unfortunately, she will find nothing contrary in the surveillance videos. She will decide it is time to switch off the lights on John Watson's case, at least as far as her division -- Homicide and Serious Crime Command -- is concerned. She will forward the case to Missing Persons before going home.


	2. Play Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock orders his toys to play with each other.

A week has passed since Sherlock looked into John’s beating heart. He hasn't played with his pet all week; he has brought John out of his glass prison only for bandage changes and loo visits. Sherlock has replaced the dressing over John’s chest stitches five times.

John’s sutures have now lost over a third of their tensile strength. It will take three to four months for the sutures to completely dissolve, but Sherlock thinks it is already safe enough for John to play.

When the army veteran rises out of unconsciousness, he finds himself on the bondage table. Apart from the wound dressing, he is naked. He is supine, with his arms stretched wide above his head, and his wrists tied down to the table. His legs are not restrained.

“Get on the table, Irene.”

John cranes his neck sideways and upwards, seeking the source of the command. S is standing about two feet from John’s bound hands, wearing a white shirt and white pyjama trousers. His soft curls are unruly. He looks young, John thinks.

When John looks back down at his body, he sees Irene making herself comfortable in a sitting position on his thighs. She is facing his limp cock, with her knee-bent legs on either side of him. John spends a moment to focus on the feel of Irene's bare arse against his skin. She is naked, like he is. Her only restraint is a tight metal wristband, three centimetres wide and one-fifth centimetre thick. The wristband is connected by a lightweight chain to a gymnastic ring that hangs from the ceiling. John’s sight follows the chain upwards, from Irene to the ring. Suddenly an image of three large, bright lights briefly flashes in his mind’s eye, and he blinks hard to shake it off.

“Get him ready. Use your hands only,” Sherlock instructs Irene, who obeys quietly.

Her hands are soft and smooth, dragging along John’s cock like small, silk pillows. The sensation is pleasant. After a minute, S hands Irene a small tube of lube. She generously applies the cool gel onto John. 

“Ughhh.” His cock begins to warm and harden, as Irene continues to massage him. She is encircling his cock with her fingers now, and pushing the circle up and down his shaft. With one hand, she keeps stroking, and with the other, she alternately rubs a thumb over John’s slit and pinches John’s bollocks.

John mindfully keeps his hips down on the table. He breathes heavily.

“Mouth,” S issues from somewhere beyond John’s head.

Irene moves backwards, giving herself room to bend down and take John’s cock in her mouth. She moans at the taste of strawberry lube.

John’s cock twitches against Irene’s tongue. He adds pre-come to the strawberry flavour.

Irene plunges her head towards John’s crotch. Her nose meets his pubic hair, just as his cock hits the back of her throat.

“Oh god, fuck!” John growls. He tenses his leg muscles to keep from thrusting into Irene’s mouth.

Irene begins to swallow, which causes her throat muscles to contract around John's cockhead. Then she relaxes her throat and laps her tongue under his length. She hollows her cheeks, closing in around him, moist and breathy.

“Shit, bugger, fuck!” John balls his hands into fists. He feels like his legs are going to cramp shortly from the effort of keeping them still. He breathes gulps of air, expelling them quickly.

“Stop, Irene,” S orders. She pulls her mouth away from John’s cock, now slicked by saliva, lube and pre-come.

John relaxes his muscles. He forces his breathing to slow. He looks at his cock, dark and stiff.

S unties a knot above John’s head, increasing the slack in the rope binding John’s left wrist to the table. John notices then that the materials around his wrists are different; securing his right wrist is a metal band, like Irene's, and there is a chain linking his wristband to a steel loop at one corner of the table. There are two combination padlocks along his chain, limiting its length by connecting segments that are actually far apart in the chain. S turns the dial on one of the locks, and removes it to extend the chain.

“Off you pop, then,” Irene says as she insinuates herself beside John, trying to push him out of his spot. “Come on, up you get. It’s my turn to lie down.” She forces John to sit up on the table, in the small space to the right of her knees. She lies flat on her back.

John shoots S a questioning look.

“Are you waiting for instruction, John?”

“Um, well… yes,” John answers with amusement in his voice. He would be smiling right now, except his confusion is slightly greater than his amusement.

Sherlock stares John down, silently and without humour.

John’s mirth vanishes. For a while there, he felt like he was actually playing, fooling around with a partner. Now he remembers his place in the hierarchy of three. “Why am I free to… move… sir?”

“Fuck her,” Sherlock says like he’s cussing.

John looks at Irene, and then back at S.

“Fuck,” Sherlock pauses, “her,” he says imperatively. “Stick your hard cock into her cunt, or I will make you hurt.” He turns to address the former dominatrix, “Ask for it, Irene.”

Irene takes John’s left hand in both of hers. She licks his index and middle fingers, and then sucks on them.

John closes his eyes. His cock, which has softened a little, begins to throb again.

Irene pulls John’s fingers out of her mouth and says, “I want you to fuck me, John,” while directing John’s fingers down to her labia. She pushes her legs apart a few inches, and presses John’s two wet fingers inside herself. She moans.

John is tentatively poking around within Irene's warm, slippery vaginal walls. His cock is leaking pre-come. He is quickly forgetting his opposition to this sexual configuration. He recalls something about… ah… “What if,” his voice comes out hoarse, so he clears his throat and tries again. “What if I get her… pregnant?”

Sherlock snorts. “She’s on birth control, John. Do keep up.” He adds, "And we're all clean, in case you haven't figured that out."

“John, please,” Irene whimpers. She is pumping her hips up towards John’s two fingers, which are still inside her, barely moving.

John decisively hacks through the cobwebs of doubt inside his head. He lays down over Irene, guiding his cock into her cunt with one hand.

Irene spreads her legs and bends them, bringing her knees closer to her upper body.

John buries himself inside her, until they are crotch to crotch. He bows his head down to suck on her nipple.

She gasps and arches her back. “Please, move.”

And John does. He thrusts into her deeply, while sucking her nipples alternately. He closes his eyes, letting her sighs and cries envelop him. He thrusts harder, faster.

Irene makes loud, sensual noises. Once, she tilts her head to see S smirking above her. She gives him back a quick smile, before contracting her vaginal muscles around John’s cock.

John starts pounding into her. His roughness is encouraged by her imploring, “yes, yes, John, harder, go on, yes, like that, oh god, yes, fuck…”

John comes inside her.

John opens his eyes, pulls out, and sits up on the table. Then he closes his eyes again and attempts to catch his breath. 

Meanwhile, Sherlock cuts John's rope with a knife. He unlocks another section of John's chain, extending it to its full span of nine feet.

When John opens his eyes, he sees Irene standing beside the table, next to S.

“You cannot escape from here,” Sherlock tells John. "The only way to free yourself from your chain is to chew your arm off, right through the bones."

John looks at his metal wristband. It appears the chain is soldered onto it.

"And even if you manage that," Sherlock continues, "you won't be able to open the door. It is voice activated."

John glances at the door.

"If you look around, John, you will see that there are no tools for you to use. Go on, look."

John sweeps his gaze around the room. For the first time, he can observe his surroundings in all directions. He inventories the room's contents: his and Irene's glass cells; the bondage table; three persons, two of whom are chained; six gymnastic rings, all suspended from a large metal frame on the ceiling; two dim lights on the ceiling; a door; and half a dozen clasps and buckles scattered across the wall opposite the door. There are no loose objects in the room. John bends down to look at the drawers under the table, and sees that they are secured by combination locks. He catches a glimpse of the severed end of a rope, dangling from his wrist, and searches for a knife or scissors. He finds neither. He looks back up at S.

“If you kill me with your bare hands, then you and Irene will die of dehydration, in here, with me. I have thought this through, John. You cannot escape. Is that understood?" Sherlock concludes.

Despite rigorous combat and defence training, soldiers sometimes end up captured by malignant entities, or worse, dead. "Yes. Sir," he replies softly.

"Now, here's what we'll do next, John. I want you to dominate me.”

John blinks.


	3. Behind Labels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I want you to dominate me."
> 
> "Why?"
> 
> "Because I'm a switch."
> 
> “What does that mean?” John asks.
> 
> “It means that sometimes I take charge, other times I submit,” Sherlock explains.

John descends from the table. He stands with most of his weight on his left leg, left arm akimbo. “Why?”

“It's your next test,” Sherlock doesn't say. Instead, he says, “Because I'm a switch. Aren't I, Irene?”

“Yes, sir,” Irene agrees, but she thinks it's a lie. S has let her dominate him only three times in the past year.

“What does that mean?” John asks.

“It means that sometimes I take charge, other times I submit,” Sherlock explains.

John thinks. “But I don't hurt people.”

“You were a soldier,” Sherlock counters.

“As a doctor,” John adds.

“Well, then don't hurt me. Just... allow yourself to take advantage.” Sherlock takes off his shirt and his trousers, drops them onto the floor, and kicks them to the side. He isn't wearing underwear, of course. “You may use the contents of the bottom right drawer.” He points to the drawers on one side of his purposely built bondage table. “The combination is ten, eight, twenty-three.”

Irene walks towards the opposite side of the table, giving the two men space for their scene.

John turns the dial on the lock. He pulls the long drawer open. There are only two items in the drawer -- a bottle of lube, and his own aluminium walking stick. “I left this at the pub, the night you kidnapped me.”

“Yes,” Sherlock nods. “Your friend Mike surrendered it to the pub's lost property. He thought you'd gone off with a woman, thought you'd come back to the pub to get your cane the next day. I had someone swipe it for me.”

“You have thieves at your disposal.” John doesn't intone it like a question, but he means it as one.

“That's not what we should be focusing on. What's more interesting is: Why wasn't your friend,” Sherlock spits out that last word, “worried about your disappearance? Do you make a habit of leaving your mates without warning?”

John wonders why S wants to know. He responds, “That was the first time I've hung out with Mike since we were in training at Barts, 10 years ago.”

It doesn't answer his question, but Sherlock decides to move on. He waves a hand towards the drawer. “Carry on.”

John takes his cane out of the drawer, and adjusts it to its full length of 37.5 inches. He holds it in his right hand, like he has done many times, and leans his weight on it. Then he looks at the other naked man in the room.

John thinks. He can probably kill S using the cane. First, he can weaken the taller man by beating him with the cane. Then he can stand behind S, holding the cane across the front of the other man's throat and pulling it backwards until S can no longer breathe. But John realises he has no desire to kill S, even though the man has kidnapped him, raped him, and bloody sliced his chest. Having witnessed many deaths, John maintains a visceral negative reaction to murder. He would only kill another person in self-defence, if he feels that his life were in mortal danger. Being S's captive does not make him feel threatened. It is nothing like being in the trenches in Afghanistan.

It is strange to have fallen into a rabbit hole of sexual slavery, but the only aspect of his commonplace civilian life that John truly misses is being a doctor. Out there, before S abducted him, he was miserable, drifting and lost at sea. There were many days when his only anchor was his work at the surgery.

John wonders if he can hurt S as retribution for taking away his medical practice.

Sherlock turns his back to John, kneels, then bends until his forehead is on the floor and his arse is in the air. His palms rest on his thighs, just above his knees.

John notices a round, blue gem glinting between S's cheeks. He steps forwards, closing the gap between himself and the presenting man. The gem appears to be an anal plug stopper. He reaches for it with his left hand, then twists it. Sherlock moans.

John steps back. He glances at Irene, who is quietly observing. He asks S, “What is your name?”

“Scott,” Sherlock speaks, his lips nearly touching the floor. “William Scott.”

The reply is a concession on Sherlock's part. Sherlock believes it is not inappropriate for John and Irene to know his name; after all, he is their whole world now, and they will never escape anyway. But Sherlock feels he is a different man inside and outside the sex room. The man who exists in the world outdoors, Sherlock Holmes, is a professional engineer and recovered drug addict; his life story is common enough. But here, inside soundproof, airtight walls, hidden aspects of Sherlock's personality are allowed to surface. In a way, this makes Sherlock's relationships with John and Irene intimate and rare. To honour this intimacy, he gives them his real names, but he gives them the two names that are not associated with his general persona.

“S for Scott. A bit public school.” John licks his lips. “You want to be buggered, don't you, William Scott?”

“Yes.”

“Turn around and face me. Keep your knees on the ground.” Sherlock does as he is told. He holds himself straight from the shoulders to the knees. He looks up at John, meekly.

“I wish I've had more water today,” John says as he holds his penis in his left hand. He aims it at the kneeling man's chest. “It's been a while since I've pissed on my own, and standing up,” he quips, and then pees. He groans, relieved.

Sherlock closes his eyes, feeling the warm fluid drip down his skin. When John is done, Sherlock meets his eyes and says, “Thank you, captain.”

It earns him a cane strike on the outside of his left thigh. He grunts to keep his balance.

“You do not get to call me that,” John reprimands. The military is not for play. It does not belong in this rabbit hole.

“Forgive me.” Sherlock bows his head. He slowly gets down on all fours and crawls towards John. He kisses John's feet, one after the other. Then, he works his way up John's right leg, leaving a zigzag trail of kisses. He does the same for the left leg. He stops when he reaches the top of John's left thigh. “May I please kiss your penis?”

“Fine.” John clears his throat and balances his weight on both legs. He holds the walking stick superfluously in his right hand.

Sherlock plants light kisses all around John's limp cock. Occasionally, he darts out the tip of his tongue, giving John little licks. He catches droplets of urine at John's slit.

It is too soon for John to get hard again.

Sherlock looks up at John, stands slowly, and kisses the bandage on John's chest.

“No.” John pushes him off with his left hand. John is not letting S think he's been forgiven for the ambush dissection.

Sherlock makes a move to bring his lips back to the same spot.

“I said no!” John swiftly inserts his cane between himself and S, horizontally. He pushes S backwards with it.

Sherlock tips back. When he regains his balance, he drops again to his knees. He crawls back to John and puts John's soft cock in his mouth. His tongue laves the underside.

“You fucking tosser. You're asking for a beating.”

Sherlock hums his affirmation around John's cock.

“All right, off. Get off.”

Sherlock pulls back.

John notices the kneeling man's hard cock. “You really like this,” John observes. He wonders if he should just start caning the man. He hesitates. He walks around S, and then paces.

Irene approaches John and whispers in his ear, “Could you forget yourself for a moment, and pretend to be someone else?”

“Who?” John whispers back.

“Someone that he knows. A man named Victor.” Irene gives John a knowing look, and then steps back to the sidelines.

John comprehends. All right, he can role-play.

Sherlock was not listening to the hushed voices. He was and is concentrating on his physical demeanour, the stainless steel plug in his arse, the piss trickling down his front, the sting of a cane on his thigh, and the line where John pushed the cane across his chest.

It doesn't matter to John who Victor is; the name is enough to provide a shield between himself and the situation that he's in. Whoever Victor is, he is a stranger to John, a completely separate entity that has nothing to do with John's real life, the one outside this room.

The name Victor is a barrier, fortifying John. The word "captain" was a cannon, fired directly into his keep.

“If I were Victor,” John says from behind S, “what would you do?”

Sherlock turns his head sideways towards Irene. His eyes are unfocused and glazed.

Irene nods and smiles. S is starting to drop into subspace.

Sherlock bends until he is presenting his arse again to John. “Please hit me,” he says.

John steels himself. He delivers the first blow across the middle of S's thighs.

The strike is tentative. Nonetheless, it makes Sherlock's voice rumble.

The sound encourages John. He swings the cane again, a little harder this time. Sherlock moans.

John's cane is adjustable in two places along its length. Rubber rings mark the two spots. Wherever a rubber ring hits Sherlock, it briefly leaves an impression on the skin.

The third time, John hits S even harder. It creates the contrast of a bright red line against pale skin. The line is broken where the aluminium is ringed with rubber. John strikes again, deliberately aiming to hit the line break with aluminium to make it turn red, too.

John approaches S. He twists the plug stopper, making S groan. He gently pulls out the plug, then stares at S's gaping hole with fascination. Lube drips out of the hole. It makes John think of a drooling mouth. John plans to fuck that arse, but not right away. He places the plug on the table, then returns to deliver six blows onto S's arse.

Sherlock sways slightly. He rests his elbows on the floor for additional support. His backside and thighs sting. His cock pulses.

John's cock stiffens, as his eyes roam over the criss-cross of red lines on S's arse and thighs. There are several spots where lines are broken; he strikes across them to fill them in with red. When he is satisfied, he approaches S and kneels behind him. He realises that S's noises have made it easy for him forget how painful a caning must be. He hadn't been thinking about pain, and was completely focused on his blush artwork. He reaches for S's cock.

Sherlock exhales, “Yes,” drawing out the sibilant.

John strokes S's shaft for a few seconds. In a fit of inspiration, he gets up and grabs the bottle of lube from the drawer. It's the same lube that Irene used on him earlier. When he returns behind S, he applies lube onto the tip of the cane, and then positions the tip between S's arse cheeks. John hears the bent man gasp. He uses both hands to push the cane into S's arse.

The rubber tip of the cane takes several seconds to insert past Sherlock's rim. When the tip is fully inside, Sherlock pushes backwards to swallow up more of the aluminium. He grunts. “Please, John.”

“Please what?” John grins. He is enjoying how desperate S is.

“Please fuck me,” Sherlock manages.

John pumps the cane in and out of S a few times, and then pulls it out. He stands and places the cane on the table, next to the plug.

Sherlock breathes raggedly.

“Stand up,” John orders, and S obeys. S doesn't turn around; his back is to John.

John comes up behind S, until his cock is up against the other man's arse. Then, he loops his left arm around S's head, trapping S's neck in his chain.

Sherlock doesn't trust John. Irene, he trusts, though not unconditionally. Tonight, Sherlock has willingly stepped into subspace, but he has kept one foot out the door. He didn't completely switch off. At this moment, a part of him is flashing warning signs; in their current positions, John could kill him in seconds. Sherlock takes a breath as deep as he can.

With his right hand, John guides his cock into S's arse. The intrusion forces S to let go of the breath he's been holding. John drags his chain downwards a few inches, pulling S with it. Then he begins pounding his cock into S's arse. He finds an angle that makes S shiver, and sticks with it. He builds towards a steady rhythm, maintaining the angle with which he can hit S's prostate.

Sherlock produces guttural sounds. Occasionally, he growls.

John thrusts harder, more rapidly. His skin slaps S's still-stinging arse and thighs. He doesn't notice that his chain is wrapping itself a bit more tightly around S's throat. When he feels his orgasm nearing, he pulls out and unwinds the chain from S's neck. S groans in disappointment.

Behind S, John picks up the bottle of lube from the floor, where he had left it. He applies lube onto his cock. Then, he says, “Face me and kneel.”

Sherlock turns around and drops to his knees. Unordered, he opens his mouth.

John loops his chain around S's throat again, and then inserts his cock into the open mouth. “I have no idea what arse tastes like. That right there is arse with strawberry.”

Sherlock thinks, “Wrong. I've fucked your mouth after your arse in the same session. You should have an idea.” He doesn't say it. He hollows his cheeks around John's cock.

“Oh, yeah.” John's right hand grabs S by the hair. He pumps his cock into S's mouth. “Suck.” S obeys, his lips bright red and swollen. John thinks red is a beautiful colour on S. He grips S's hair tighter, and plunges deeper into his mouth. His cockhead touches S's throat. John pulls his left wrist to wind the chain more tightly around S's neck. He feels the slight constriction around his cockhead. He pulls his wrist again, and S chokes. Tears well up in S's eyes. John fucks S's mouth roughly as he chases his orgasm. When their eyes lock, John comes.

John pulls out of S and releases his hair, then unwraps the chain from S's neck.

Sherlock has swallowed John's come. He falls forwards, catching his weight on his palms. He coughs, and then waits to regain his breath. Head bowed, he comments, “I knew you had it in you.”

“Did you finish?” John asks.

Interesting, Sherlock thinks. John didn't ask Irene this question earlier.

When S straightens back up, John sees that his cock is still hard. “Touch yourself.”

Sherlock protests, “We don't have to--”

“Do it for me.”

Sherlock keeps his eyes on John's face as he strokes himself. John's eyes are fixed on Sherlock's crotch. When John licks his lips, Sherlock strokes himself harder. He moans.

John says, “Yes, fuck yourself for me... That's it, faster... Yeah... Are you close?”

Sherlock nods.

“Then come on, come for me.”

Sherlock splatters his come on the floor. He gets some on John's feet. He crawls towards John and licks the whitish fluid clean off his feet. Then Sherlock stands up.

“Are... are you all right?” John asks.

“Fine,” Sherlock replies as he walks towards the door. He clears his throat, then says, “Katherine Taylor and Harriet Watson.” The door opens. Sherlock steps out and closes the door behind him without looking back.

Irene and John hear something being dragged just outside the door. It is a section of wall, sliding to cover the door to the sex room.

Sherlock goes downstairs to his bedroom, lies face down on his bed, and tries to get some kip.

Upstairs, John says to Irene, “He's never left me in here before. He's always drugged me right after a session, and then I'd just wake up in my cell.”

“He has left me here before,” Irene says, “but not like this.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, one time, he left me tied to the table, with a vibrator up my cunt. He left me here like that all night.”

“Oh, god.”

They are both quiet for a few seconds. Then Irene asks, “Who's Harriet?”

“My sister. How about the other name... is that someone you know?”

“Kate, the one I told you about. Is Harriet the person you care about most?”

“I guess you could say that. But we have a complicated relationship. We're not exactly close.” John remembers, “Who's Victor?”

“Someone our captor regrets. At the beginning of one session, when I was going to top him, he told me that the session was for Victor. When I asked, he said Victor was someone he knew at uni. That's all he said.” Irene shrugs.

Downstairs, Sherlock is still awake. His mind takes him back to Cambridge, where he is a fresher once again. He is 19 years old, and 55 days into his first romantic relationship. It is a sunny day, and he and Victor Trevor are sharing a passionate kiss on the lawn outside his bedsit.

That night, Sherlock's mother phones him. “Your father came to visit you today, you know.”

Sherlock's chest tightens. “I didn't see him.”

“But he saw you.”

Sherlock listens to his mum's sobbing. The next day, he breaks up with Victor.

He and Victor had never had sex.

Months later, Sherlock encounters drugs, and his addiction begins. For three years, he lends his body to dealers to ensure a constant supply of white powder. During that period, his body's only purposes were transport and currency.

To this day, Sherlock hasn't had another romantic relationship.

Back in the present, Sherlock finally falls asleep.

Hours later, when the London sky is black, Sherlock wakes. On his bedside table, his phone blinks a voicemail alert light. He grabs it and listens to the message.

The message is from Mycroft. “You know, brother mine, I can tell that the 1.69-metre, Caucasian, cross-dressed, brown-wigged man who left Baker Street with you on May the second is not the same as the 1.69-metre, Caucasian, cross-dressed, brown-wigged man you came home with. I can also tell that the 1.69-metre, Caucasian man who left Baker Street the next morning is yet another person. Why are the police interested in CCTV footage of your flat? Phone me.”

Sherlock throws his mobile across the room, and goes back to sleep.


End file.
